I loved these action figures when I was a kid. They were heavy, they were sculpted, they were totally different than any other action figure before or since, and during an era when wrestling video games didn't exist (this is before Exciting Hour gave us the Insane Worrier and his pals) playing with them in the Sling 'Em-Fling 'Em Wrestling Ring was the closest we could get to recreating our favorite matches . . . or inventing our own stories and rivalries:"The Iron Sheik would never team up with Hulk Hogan!""Oh yeah, watch this!"

Ah, youth.

This is probably one of those generational things, but if you used to
get up early on the weekends to watch Mean Gene and Jesse The Body
Ventura do commentary while The Hart Foundation took on The Killer
Bees, you're going to love it.

I took the quiz this morning, and scored 86% (12 out of 14.) I would have scored 13 out of 14 if I hadn't second-guessed myself on [redacted] when I should have just trusted my instincts. I do that a lot, goddammit. In my defense, there was one guy who I've never heard of, because he was, sadly, after my time. God, it kills me to say that. Why can't wrestling stay preserved in amber, existing only from 1980-1986? Because we wouldn't have Mankind and The Undertaker's legendary Hell in a Cell match if we did, that's why.

My writing muscles have atrophied over the last three weeks, and they need to be warmed up so I can get back to work.

Please enjoy this rambling braindump about movies which I hope will start knocking some of the cobwebs off:

I watched a ton of movies in the last three weeks, including a ton of Academy screeners, provided to me by my vast underground network of Big Hollywood Super Players. My thoughts, let me show you them:

I loved everything about Juno, from the casting to the dialog to the photography to the soundtrack (which I bought the moment the credits began to roll) and I was surprised at how much I liked There Will Be Blood. I loved Boogie Nights, but I feel like everything Paul Thomas Anderson has done since then has been one big, "My jerking off! Let me show you it!" Daniel Day Lewis made this movie for me, and I spent a lot of hazy hours thinking about what a gift it is -- and how much dedication and hard work is required -- to transform an idea and words into a living, breathing character.

The Orphanage was enjoyable, and if you liked The Ring and The Others, I think you'd like it, as well. Maybe it was the drugs, but I felt a step ahead the whole time, so I was forced to just enjoy the photography and MILFiness of Belén Rueda.

I gave up on 3:10 to Yuma after 35 minutes. I felt like I missed the first reel, or something, and didn't know who the characters were, or why I should care about them. Bummer, because I really like westerns.

I thought No Country for Old Men was beautifully shot and brilliantly performed, but it didn't shake the Earth for me like it apparently has for everyone else who's seen it. I thought it ended abruptly, and it wasn't until hours later that I realized, "Oh, they wanted it to be Tommy Lee Jones' story, not Josh Brolin's." I understand the Sheriff is a richer character in the book, and I probably would have felt more satisfied with the whole thing if the Coen Brothers had included more of his backstory. Bummer, because I really like westerns.

I thought Control was okay, but your enjoyment of the film is going to be directly proportional to how much you love Joy Division, I think. It's not deep enough for casual audiences, and felt a little long to me. I wanted to see more of Ian and Deborah's relationship, and I was surprised that I didn't, since it was based on her book and she was one of the producers. I loved the music, I loved the photography, and I thought it was cool that they shot it in color and processed it down to black and white. The actors sound great as Joy Division, much better than those modern bands who are stealing their sound. She Wants Revenge and Interpol, I'm looking in your direction.

I watched lots of older movies, too: Breach was okay, and I was pleasantly surprised to see Ryan Philippe totally hold his own with Chris Cooper. I'd skip it unless you're a Chris Cooper fan. Or a Laura Linney fan. Which I am. But two MILF comments in one post may give you all the impression that I'm some kind of weirdo, so let's just move on . . .

I tried -- twice -- to watch The Zodiac. I read books about this guy like crazy when I was a teenager (growing up in Richard Ramirez' Nightstalker Los Angeles gave me an insatiable curiosity about serial killers) so I was really looking forward to this movie. I can't point to one factor, but it never grabbed me.

The Last Picture Show goes in my top ten of all time, meaning I'll have to knock something off to make room, but I don't know what. I couldn't help but feel like Lucas tried -- and failed -- to copy it with American Graffiti. It made me want to watch The Grapes of Wrath again.

I watched Chinatown for the first time since I was 19 or 20, and I'm really glad I did. For all the time I spent in my 20s worrying about being in my 30s, I remember something someone told me when I was 29 (paraphrased): "Your 20s are about gathering information and experience, and your 30s are about putting it to use." I still feel like I have a lot to learn, but I feel more sure of who I am -- way more sure of who I am than I did when I was younger -- and I don't know what relevance this rambling tangent had when I started talking about it, but watching Chinatown in my 30s was a profoundly different and much more rewarding experience than it was when I was younger. "Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown."

The same thing goes for The Natural. I forgot that The Natural really isn't about baseball, and have to admit that "Pick me out a winner, Bobby," nails me in my weepy manbits the same way "Hey, dad . . . want to have a catch?" does. I would have found this movie overly sentimental and too magical when I was a cynical 24 year-old with a copy of Howl in his pocket. Hell, I probably did. I'm glad I watched it without the baggage of being young and cocksure.

28 Weeks Later didn't do for 28 Days Later what Dawn of the Dead did for Night of the Living Dead, but I like Robert Carlyle and can think of worse things to do with 90 minutes than watch The Infected do their thing.

I'm ashamed to admit that I hadn't seen Spirited Away until this month. I loved every single thing about it, and I think it may edge out Akira in my top 5 Anime of all time. I know, blasphemy, but I responded to it on a level that I never have with Akira. It's similar to the way Blade Runner moves me in ways that Star Wars does not. And we all know how much I love Star Wars. Oh, fucking hell, I guess I should just get this over with: if I had to choose, entirely on their individual merits, and took out the nostalgia, toys, and significance in my childhood, and look at them in a vacuum, Blade Runner resonates much more powerfully with me. I think it's a better film. Hey, maybe I'll watch that Final Ultimate Really We Mean It director's cut in a little bit. I'm supposed to ramp up to normal activity slowly, so maybe I can justify it.

I'm sure I watched other stuff, but it's not coming straight to mind, so I guess it's safe to say that whatever else I saw didn't make much of an impression.

Heh. There was a time when I'd look at all of this, say out loud, "who gives a fuck what you think about movies?" and delete the whole thing because it's not that interesting to anyone but me. Maybe it's residual drugs in my system, or part of that thing I mentioned earlier about being in my mid-30s (yipe), but I needed to write this because thinking about all of it has taken up cycles in my brains that I need for other stuff. So here it is, and if you're reading this, I guess it's safe to assume that you found something worthwhile in it, so at least I haven't wasted your time.

Back in the days when Tony Pierce wasn't spending his time trolling his own commenters and generating controversy for the sake of building page views, he wrote a fantastic post about avoiding blogging burn out, which was something we were all talking about in those days when we were all sort of defining what blogging was and wasn't, making it up as we went along (but not admitting that we were.) I forget exactly what the advice was (and it's all massively awesome advice that should be required reading for everyone -- including Tony, today -- who aspires to do more than talk about their cats with their blog) but it can be distilled down to a couple of things: write what you want to, write what's on your mind, and don't worry about who is reading it. It's such simple and logical advice, but clearly isn't easy to absorb and put into practice, because I need to remind myself about it at least twice a year. I used to worry a lot about wasting people's time with my blog, but now I save that obsessing for my books.

Oh, totally unrelated to movies, but because I'm thinking about it: I bought the remastered Joshua Tree last week, because my original CD, which I bought at Tower Records in 1987, had a scratch across Running To Stand Still right when he sings "Cry without weeping." This scratched copy of Joshua Tree was one of the first CDs I ever bought for myself, and I couldn't bring myself to replace it, so I've been listening to it this way, with the clicks and pops, for at least 15 years. It made me feel a little sad to replace it, like I was letting something go that I wanted or needed to keep around, but I haven't been listening to the physical CD for years, and I figured it was okay to replace the music with a pristine version, while saving the original CD for keeping in The Vault of Memories.

Whew. This is the most I've written in a month, and it is ram-buh-ling. I'm tired, now. I think I'll go for a walk.

Take a look at your nose. See how normally-sized it is? Pretty small and stuff, right? Maybe a few centimeters across?

This afternoon, my doctor pulled two plastic splints out of mine, each the about one-and-a-half times the size of a silver dollar and shape of a smashed penny (I just looked at them again, because he sterilized them so I could keep them as a souvenir) When he was done, I had this overwhelming compulsion to get my ass to Mars.

I instantly felt 100% better, and when he told me that I can resume all
my normal activities (albeit slowly, over several weeks) - including the glorious consumption of Guinness - I
thought I was going to cry with joy and relief.

I know that my doctor has lots of patients, and I know that taking care of all of us is his job, but throughout this entire process, from my first consultation to the removal of my splints this afternoon, he and his entire surgical team and office staff made me feel like I was his only one. I'm an extremely lucky, happy, and grateful guy. Who can finally breathe normally. Though his nose.

Yesterday, I woke up feeling about 50% of normal. It's the closest I've felt to normal since I went in for surgery, so it was a huge improvement. I got all the way up to about 70% by the late afternoon, but was back down to 50% by the time I went to bed.

I feel pretty much the same, this morning (maybe slightly better than last,) and all kinds of brown goo is coming out of my nose, so I guess I'm healing up and my body is kicking shit out that needs to get out. This is probably why I'm feeling steadily better.

I miss writing and blogging, but I have to assume that following my doctor's instructions and fully embracing Operation Do Absolutely Nothing But Watch TV And Sleep has a lot to do with the massive turn for the better I've taken in the last 24 hours.

I almost ruined everything, though, last week. Anne was out at a class, and my back was hurting from sitting at a 30 degree angle for several days in a row, so I thought I'd take a warm bath to relax it. Still hopped up on painkillers and shit, I made the bath too hot, and by the time I realized that I was sweating like Roger Ebert (about 15 minutes later) and got out, the damage had been done: the hot water relaxed my back, but it also relaxed all the blood vessels in my body -- including the ones in my sinuses that we want to keep, uh, not relaxed and not bleeding -- and was, according to my doctor, "the absolute worst thing" I could have done for recovery. In 15 minutes, I undid about a week's worth of healing, had a massive sinus headache, blood coming out of my face, and generally felt like shit.

I was furious with myself for being so stupid, which raised my blood pressure, which made me bleed more, which made me more mad, which made my headache worse . . . you can see where this is going. It took me two days to fully calm down and accept that I did something profoundly stupid, had nobody to blame but myself, and would just have to wait it out until my body undid the damage and put me back where I was before The Bathtub Incident.

(Oh, and for a big bonus, the swelling I gave myself made me snore again, pretty much canceling out one of the main reasons I had the surgery in the first place, and forcing me out of my own bed so Anne could get a good night's sleep, which she needs now more than ever, because she is doing literally everything in our house while I sit on the couch.)

So when I woke up yesterday morning, feeling better than I have in the last three weeks, it was worthy of some celebration! I moved from one side of the couch to the other, and there was much rejoicing.

I feel congested on the left side this morning, which is where my body is dumping the brown goo. I'm pretty sure this qualifies as progress, but it's also kind of gross. I was hoping to upgrade my status today to 60% of normal or better, but I think I have to be realistic and stay at 50%. At least I don't feel irritable and irrational any more. That was really getting to be a problem for me.

I see my doctor again tomorrow, and if everything looks good, I'm supposed to get my stitches and splints out, and there will probably be some vacuuming of goo out of my head as well. If I'm real lucky, I'll be cleared to drive and start getting back to my life.

Oh! I've been able to fucos enough to read again, so I've been re-reading Dark Knight Returns (in Absolute form) and I started The Atrocity Archives. The Atrocity Archives is fucking brilliant, and as much fun to read as advertised. I highly recommend it.

It's absolutely beautiful here today. I think I'll suspend Operation Just Watch TV and throw the switch on Operation Sit In The Sun And Read A Book On The Patio For An Hour Or So.

I saw the doctor yesterday, and he used that thing from Total Recall to suction about 90 pounds of extremely disgusting stuff out of my head. (Please note that certain aspects of these reports may be exaggerated for various reasons, mostly because I find them amusing.)

He told me that I have to continue Operation Do Nothing At All, I Mean
It Nothing At All And I Am Not Even Joking About This for another week, at which time he'll take the
splints off my septum and probably clear me for driving and other
normal activities, which makes me even happier than my impending return
to Guinness consumption.

My sinuses look good, and most of the discomfort that was lingering has gone away, so I'm finally off all the pain meds and things that were making me feel stupid and disoriented and, well, like an idiot on drugs. My strongest painkiller now is extra strength Tylenol.

I still get tired easily, and I'm still easily irritated and irrationally annoyed by random things, so staying off the internets is probably a good idea for the next few days. My doctor says that this is also entirely normal and part of the recovery process, which is quite comforting and makes me feel less looney.

So, since it's unlikely I'll be updating my blog for a bit, I found the perfect picture to leave here for a few days:

In all seriousness, I'm recovering at exactly the right pace, according to people who keep score on this sort of thing.

Warning: this is about to get gross.

I'm off all the meds, except for some stupid steroid for swelling that makes me really fucking irritable and regular Tylenol for this very minor headache that I guess is also pretty normal, once you've had a bunch of stuff the size of a Weighted Companion Cube yanked out of your head, and a "major septoplasty". Oh! and the most awesome thing? The stuff that looks like chicken liver that comes out of my nose about four times a day.

My doctor says I have some kind of post-surgical hypertension, which is why I can't do a damn thing other than sit here and watch movies for another three or four days, so I'm starting to get <i>really</i> bored and antsy. And irritable. Goddamn am I irritable. So don't fuck with me, or I'll shoot chicken liver at you from my nose gun.

Oh! You know what I learned a whole bunch about on TV yesterday? Trains during wartime and secret underground Cold War tunnels. Exactly WTF I'm going to do with this knowledge, I don't know, so I'm looking forward to removing it from my brain with Guinness once I allowed to drink alcohol again . . . in three goddamn miserable weeks, because alcohol makes me bleed, which remains bad.

Did I mention that I'm bored and irritable? Because boy, howdy.

However, I can smell things again. I can taste things again. I can sleep through the night without snoring, and I don't regret having this surgery for a single moment. Sincerely, I don't. And my doctor is some kind of superhero, who I think came from space and the future to carve a 4x5cm chunk of polyp-covered Horta from just one of my sinus cavities. There's more, but I think I've been gross enough for one day.

Thank you, everyone, for all your get well wishes, here and at Fark. That was really, really, cool. I totally broke the "just sit here and continue to do a bunch of fucking nothing" rule during breakfast this morning so I could check up on e-mails and stuff.

I better go back to the couch. My couch groove is starting to lose its shape. Have a nice weekend, everyone.

. . . yep. But my doctor says that talking on the phone, sending e-mails, posting in my blog, and spending too any time doing much more than watching TV (I'm still too drugged up to fucos -- I'm not changing the spelling on that because it's so goddamn funny -- on reading this big stack of graphic novels I bought for the recovery) raises my blood pressure dangerously high, making me bleed a lot. I guess bleeding a lot is something I'm supposed to avoid for the next few days, so it's me, the couch, and the TV.

I'm trying to get Anne to guest post while I'm drooling on the couch and watching Modern Marvels, so maybe there will be something worth reading here in the near future.

Thanks for all the get well wishes you've all left in comments and sent via e-mail. That's very kind of you all.

I spent the last four days in Bat Country, while recovering from major sinus surgery. I'll spare the gory (and oh my god are they gory) details, but when all this packing comes out of my sinuses on Tuesday, I can look forward to not snoring all night and waking up with a skull crushing sinus headache for the first time in about ten years. I'm planning a party, all by myself with some toast and a cup of coffee.

I don't think I'll be posting much until I'm back to normal, but I didn't want anyone to think I'll fallen down a well next to little Timmy Turner.O'Toole. (My bad. I'm so full of painkillers and meds that all I can do ism,nsdnsakazza,mmp.)

Unless Sting wants to write a song about it, in which case, please send your love down the well.

“When I am this party's nominee, my opponent will not be able to say
that I voted for the war in Iraq; or that I gave George Bush the
benefit of the doubt on Iran; or that I supported Bush-Cheney policies
of not talking to leaders that we don't like. And he will not be able
to say that I wavered on something as fundamental as whether or not it
is ok for America to torture — because it is never ok… I will end the
war in Iraq… I will close Guantanamo. I will restore habeas corpus. I
will finish the fight against Al Qaeda. And I will lead the world to
combat the common threats of the 21st century: nuclear weapons and
terrorism; climate change and poverty; genocide and disease. And I will
send once more a message to those yearning faces beyond our shores that
says, "You matter to us. Your future is our future. And our moment is
now.”

I’m for Obama knowing perfectly well that, as Bill
Clinton suggested, it’s a “roll of the dice”. A roll of the dice for
Democrats, for progressives, for those of us who’ve fought so hard
against the right-wing frames that Obama sometimes (sometimes craftily,
sometimes naively) deploys. Because I think a Hillary Clinton candidacy
will be another game of inches, yielding—at best—another four or eight
years of knifework in the dark. Because I think an Obama candidacy
might actually shake up the whole gameboard, energize good people,
create room and space for real change.

Because he seems to know
something extraordinarily important, something so frequently missing
from progressive politics in this country, in this time: how to hearten people. Because when I watch him speak, I see fearful people becoming brave.

We've been afraid for too long, and it's cost us dearly. Karl Rove and George Bush and Dick Cheney will have many disastrous legacies, but one of the most despicable and enduring will be how they used fear to deeply and deliberately divide our country.

It's going to be a huge challenge for our next president to heal this nation, and end the Culture of Fear that's been created by the Bush Administration. I believe that Barack Obama is the best candidate to do that, and I was proud to vote for him today.

It felt so good to cast a vote that I was proud of, in support of
someone, instead of resigning myself to voting for the lesser of two
evils.